NINE HORSES - Snow Borne Sorrow

Two years on from the divisive "Blemish", David Sylvian returns with a project called Nine Horses, an ensemble that places him alongside his inseparable brother Steve Jansen and electronic alchemist Burnt Friedman.

Truth be told, the whole cast of musicians is rather impressive: names like Theo Travis (one of the finest flautists around), jazz double bassist Keith Lowe, Thomas Hass on saxophone, even Arve Henriksen of Supersilent on trumpet, and above all the great Ryuichi Sakamoto on piano.

Given such riches, it's only natural for listener expectations to run sky-high, and they climb even higher when you read, or hear, the invariably glowing comments that have always, everywhere, accompanied David's releases as the chilly, romantic artist he is.

Why invariably? Well, because Sylvian now enjoys unconditional trust from music writers. Partly because he's rightly seen as an artist so far removed from market logic, someone who plays for art's sake rather than profit, and partly because he has an attentive, loyal fan base who will no doubt be thrilled to find in "Snow Borne Sorrow" the blanket to warm themselves up with after the exceptional chill of the bold, and thoroughly successful, glitch experiment that was "Blemish".

All true, but not entirely, because that blanket does indeed give off a reassuring warmth, yet it smells less of freshly laundered fabric and more of a heavy whiff of mothballs. And this is coming from a die-hard Japan fan from day one, someone who has knelt, moved, before works like "Brilliant Trees", "Gone To Earth" or "Secrets Of The Beehive", yet who, with considerable effort, is trying to stay level-headed amid the widespread wave of approval we mentioned, which, needless to say, hasn't failed to materialize this time either.

What sets "Snow Borne Sorrow" apart from what a David Sylvian solo album might sound like?

In some ways, nothing, which is why it's hard to understand what role Friedman actually plays on an album that couldn't be more pop-jazzy, one where the electronic arrangements are often relegated to the background behind the arsenal of horns and brushed drums dressing the compositions.

The mischievous side of this writer can't help but wonder whether the project's name stems from a reluctance on his part to fully step into the open, especially in the wake of the genuinely daring experience begun with the album released two years earlier.

We give you full permission to mock us for that, though, mind you, ill thoughts are a sin but they're often right on the money.

Is there anything on "Snow Borne Sorrow" worth remembering, something that can't somehow be traced back, here and there, across Sylvian's now decades-long career? No, sir, not unless you're satisfied with the lyrics, which here abandon the usual paradises of the soul to grapple with the sorrows of the world, or with an equally commendable attempt to steer toward easy-listening pop, which historically isn't really his forte, save for a few isolated moments, among which we'd mention "Buoy" from Mick Karn's album "Dreams of Reason Produce Monsters" (1987), and the well-known, luminous "Forbidden Colours", written together with Sakamoto.

But here, let us be clear, in terms of songwriting we're light years apart.

So what's left, then?

Top-notch arrangements, plenty of fine form, and a voice that is, and remains, unique and inimitable. And yet, songs that rely solely on craft, on heavy-handed mannerism, and as such are utterly forgettable, adding little (and poorly) to what's already been said.

But no matter: some will be thrilled, while others will wait confidently for new, disturbed and experimental laptop symphonies to make them quickly forget all this.

So it goes, and what's done is done.

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30/04/2026